I wrote a letter today with the intention of giving it so that finally I may say the things I have meant to say for two or three (or more than I would care to admit, really) months. Not that these words would have any bearing whatsoever on anything.
I wrote a letter today with the intention of tearing it into a million unintelligible pieces so that perhaps—I am not quite sure—I am able to accept everything, to forgive, to forgive everyone, most of all myself. Like I have tried to do with every letter prior.
There has been a yellow paper airplane (it’s called Boomerang plane, it’s supposed to come back when thrown but it has never done that for me) sitting in my bag for hours now and I don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t know how to deal with it, as if everything relies on the fate of this certain yellow paper plane.
Nothing ever relies on a paper plane, much like nothing anymore relies on what I feel (que terrible); but I still wonder what would have happened if I had given it. And if anything would have changed. And if, in fact, one small thing relied on this paper plane.
There has been a yellow paper airplane sitting in my bag for hours now and for my sake I will write and rewrite everything until I grow tired of every single sadness and everything I have ever felt.
Until I grow weary of every word I have written.
